Owlman: The Darkest Knight
by DSW2496
Summary: A new ongoing series set on The Crime Syndnicate’s Earth with separately published sister stories focusing on the other members of the Crime Syndicate.
1. Dark Beginnings

Gotham City.

It is an old town, full of dust and history, its roots tied to gothic architecture with buildings made of harsh stone that rise from the ground like nightmares. This is not a good city to raise a child in. Gotham City is a city of crime, steeped in the hold of the mob, accompanied by the petty crime and gangbangers that plague its dark streets. On another world it might be protected by a man dressed up as a bat.

There are no bats here.

A dark figure sits perched atop a gargoyle, clad in black and gray. Round eye goggles flicker blue with information, a crackle of police band scanner in his ear beneath his mask. He listens attentively for a moment, then leaps off the gargoyle, his cape extending to help him glide. This city is nestled in the talons of a creature of the night, too strong to break, too suffocating to throw off.

There are no bats here.

The figure's glide comes to a stop, feet touch ground atop a commercial warehouse with a dull thud, knees bending to absorb the shock. It is practiced and graceful, a skill borne of a thousand repetitions. A hand goes to his belt, rummaging for a tool as his opposite hand goes to where a normal man's ear would be, opening a line to his home base. There are no bats here.

This is a city of Owls.

"Owlman to Cave." His voice is smooth yet tempered like steel. It is the voice of a man used to this kind of thing, to be nocturnal and do what men of the night do. " _Cave here, sir. I'm listening in on the GCPD's communications."_ Owlman grunts at this, pulling out a razor sharp boomerang; The press have taken to calling them Razorangs. Owlman didn't care what they were called as long as they got the job done. Kneeling by the skylight of the warehouse, he quirked his head slightly to the left, then grimacing again, putting the razorang back into his utility belt. It figures, he thought, that the warehouse he owns should use glass thicker than his boomerangs could sufficiently cut through.

Swearing under his breath, he dug into a separate compartment, pulling out a small, handheld laser. Pointing it at the glass, Owlman activated the laser. "Cave, access security cameras for our warehouse near the docks, in the Bowery,"He growls out. " I need to know what I'm walking into." The laser burns through one hinge of the glass, the smell acrid and drifting into the night air. When the glass is nearly cut in a neat circle he places a suction cup device to it, and finishes the circle, taking the cut glass out quietly and slipping a gloved hand inside. The latch-why the skylights to a warehouse would have latches on the inside is a mystery to him, as few things are-comes undone with a quiet click, barely perceptible to the human ear.

He lifts the screen up carefully, quietly. Those inside cannot know his presence until he wills it. Unwanted detection can have dire, dire consequences.

Thomas is not like the others in this world. He cannot bend steel with his bare hands, move faster than the speed of light or transmute matter with his hands. Thomas cannot summon constructs of hard light. This did not make him weak; rather he is skilled. He is a wraith, keeping to dark shadows where he remains unseen. And he has something the others do not. A finely tuned mind and a body honed through years of training, forged into a perfect weapon.

He slips inside the open latch, perching atop on the rafters, carefully balancing his weight lest the beams be too unstable to hold his weight. Owlman looks around, piecing together the story from the evidence presented to him from this vantage point. Alfred prattles in his ear, reading off the police report the computer has hacked from the GCPD.

Thomas does not need the report, he is clever and he is cunning; but it never hurts to listen to what the cops know. CSI has cleared the scene already, and no boys in blue currently inhabit the scene. If they did, they would run at the suggestion he might be there. Bad things happened to cops who got in the Owl's way.

Satisfied that he is alone, at least for the moment, he leaps from the rafters, already scanning for evidence the inept crime scene investigators might have missed. As usual, the GCPD's case solvency rate is surpassed by their ineptitude. Blood hidden by a box, bloody handprint on same, hidden by the dark lighting in a corner twenty yards from the body's position. He pulled up the crime scene photos of the body to his HUD, pleasantly surprised they had a decent photographer.

His surprise turns to anger when he sees the evidence that the PD clearly missed. They assumed the victim was done in randomly. Admittedly, random crime was a real occurrence in Gotham, but he did patrols to rein those in. Few got away with plying their trade in Gotham without the say-so of the Owlman. All who liked breathing paid homage to him.

There were a few who opposed him, but they existed, despite Gordon's atrocious attempt at propaganda to the contrary. The press, Satan damn them, had given them all colorful sobriquets: Names like Gentleman Grundy, and Quizmaster, Citizen Crow, Mister Freeze and the like. Where they had no sobriquet, they were known to their real names. Harvey Dent, a district attorney dedicated to bringing down Organized Crime by any means, or perhaps Roman Sionis, the Man running for police commissioner this year. None of them worried him so much as the Joker.

Long ago, when Owlman had set out on this journey to build his empire, Thomas had prepared for all kinds of resistance; but nothing prepared him for the Joker. A madman claiming to be for the people, an anarchist trying to topple control. None of his other adversaries kept him up as much as Joker.

Thankfully however, this holds none of the hallmarks of that monster masquerading as a "hero." This was quick and dirty, a mob hit. Few criminal organizations refused to bow to him, but they existed alongside his other, more chivalrous adversaries. This held the hallmark of the Cosa Nostra, and that meant Huntress, Helena Bertinelli. It was impressive how skilled the bitch was, especially when it came to fighting and murder, but it concerned him little. She was the same as any other rival to his empire, a bug to be quashed under his boot heel.

"Bertinelli...you go too far this time." It was easy to see why she would go after Wayne Enterprises' shipments, as he was a military contractor, building bleeding edge weapons; also a useful cover for developing his arsenal. She was trying to arm herself for an assault against him, using his own would be toys.

Owlman shakes his head out of his thoughts and presses a button on his belt, summoning the car. "I'm going to kill her today, Alfred. She's irritated me for the last time."


	2. Chapter 2: Huntress

Earth-3

Gotham

A long table folds out before an equally long room, men in expensively tailored suits around the table talking amongst themselves whilst waiting for their boss.

"So why do they call her Huntress?" Mark, the youngest capo piped up, having not been with the family for very long. He was just shy of Twenty-Five, bright blonde hair and blue eyed. His uncle Carmine smacked him upside the head for the impious question, but the others decided to humor the kid. "They say she's trying to oppose that Owl-Man what's been taking over the city. Takin' on something that don't exist."

Vito, another capo, pipes up derisively. "Nahhh, That ain't it, I heard she tracked down her old boyfriend, hunted him down, knifed him up what good." The table had a round of laughs and another capo spoke up, lighting a cigar as he did so. "Y'know, boys, the boss is on her way here, and if you wait about-" He checks his watch, puffing out a bit of acrid smoke."-two minutes, you can ask her yourself. Of course, outta respect for the boss, I'll choose not to answer with my own version of the story, you understand."

The room falls silent at that, a quiet tomb until the doors open and close to the entrance of their boss, who lithely walks on five inch heels to the head of the table, sitting at the head of the table. She spreads her immaculately manicured hands out over a folder, one with the label Owl-Man on it. "Gentlemen, I have managed to procure this file from our man in the GCPD; it contains every scrap of information the pigs have on him. My assistants will distribute copies, and you will read them; that is assuming of course, that you _can_ read at all. With that, my new bodyguard, Mr. Eric Needham, will brief you all. "

The man behind her stepped up to the table, letting his face show in the light. He was a big man, an ex-cop, and former SWAT as well, judging by a tattoo on his bicep. It figures, the capos thought, that an ex-Cop would be their best protection from the Owl-Man.

His voice booms around the room, clear and concise like a drill instructor, but not harshly barking at them. It is like them organizing their men to action. "I have studied this file, and watched any available footage on him, which isn't much but I can tell you now: The Owl-Man is going to kill you. He is going to kill you, and you will die. Make no mistake, I worked for ten years on the GCPD SWAT team and I have _never_ seen anyone this skilled. Some of you will scoff and say he doesn't exist. Let me be the first to say he definitely does. Thus: You are definitely screwed."

At that, the table sets up on a roar, its occupants' collective egos bruised, until Helena silences them all by slamming her hand down on the table. "Shut the fuck up! Mr. Needham, show them the footage." Needham nods, and glares at the projectionist he has brought with him. The screen behind Helena lowers, and a black and white footage from a security cam begins to play, a time code ticking by in the upper left hand corner. The label "GCPD PARKING LOT 1" is in the upper right, and a scene unfolds before them, soundless but clear as day.

* * *

"Freeze! Don't you move, motherfucker!"

Owlman's head quirks to the left as he backs away from the railing, hands up. He turns to face the officers, a young man with blond hair and a square jaw in point position. His name tag reads Branden and the uniform screams SWAT, as does the other three officers' uniforms. Branden's Glock 22 is in a standard two handed grip is pointed squarely at the Owlman's center mass. He does not take his eyes from the other man, but raises his off hand to his radio, to inform dispatch that they have a suspect in custody.

Alfred is buzzing in Owlman's ear, unheard by the SWAT team. " _Master Thomas, I implore you, get out of there now! They will arrest you and you will not see your endeavor through!_ "

Yet The Owlman ignores his servant. His eyes are unflinchingly kept on the cops in front of him. They move in closer, all pointing only sidearms at him. No one thought to bring a Carbine or shotgun to him, which means that at the least they haven't discovered the four dead officers in the basement. Slowly, as if he is a wild animal that will carve them alive, they circle him. Branden orders them to keep an eye on him whilst he cuffs the oddly dressed man.

" _Sir, please. They aren't worth your time."_

A hand goes to his cowl, and that is when he explodes into action.

Ducking his head, he allows the man behind him to stumble forward of the officer's own momentum. Owlman moves violently, slipping his handcuffed hands around the neck and turning in the same move, strangling over his shoulder with the handcuffs. The other three open fire, to no avail as the Owl-Man uses their dead friend as a meat shield. He lets the corpse drop to the pavement with a dull thud, gathering his cape about him to hide the movement of his hands.

"Hands! SHOW ME YOUR HANDS!"

Branden is bellowing now, equal parts angry and scared. He has no idea how lethal this man really is, or exactly what his capabilities are. A smart man would have held the scene, radioed in for backup, officer down, but Branden was young. He was a new appointee to the GCPD's SWAT team, a rookie fresh out of the academy. In his later years, he will point to this night as one of his greatest failures.

Owlman lets the fear hang in the air just a moment, before tossing the now-broken handcuffs into the overhead light. It does not, as was the best case scenario, shatter completely; rather, it flickers ominously, teetering on the edge of darkness.

Branden signals to his remaining men to go in and re-restrain the suspect, but their enemy is far more cunning. He lunges into the first cop, rolling with the impact to execute a throw Branden recognizes from his judo classes as a youth at the same time the thrown cop's gun goes off, killing the officer opposite Owl-Man. The costumed Crime Lord deftly drives his knee into the officer he flipped onto the ground, expelling forcefully the air out of his lungs. Gloved hands grasp the crown and chin, to Branden's mounting horror, as a wet snap breaks the air. In a fit of anger and fear, Branden fires every last round he has into the costumed criminal's shape, but sadly, each bullet misses. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, fight or flight kicking in, making his hands shake; his fight was lost. Owlman rose during the firing and calmly walked over to the railing, firing a grapnel line into the distance. He turns back to look at Officer Branden, and growls out something the video camera doesn't pick up, before disappearing off into the night.

* * *

The video ends and Eric Needham turns back to the assembled mafia captains. "Do you really think you can fight that? I think I can, but you? No. So do what the hell I tell you, and maybe we can live past this."

Helena nods to them all to be dismissed, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. "Thank you, Mr. Needham. You're dismissed." The big man nods and leaves her with her thoughts.

A highly trained, highly skilled man who was thought to be an urban myth is actually real. "Shit," she swore under her breath. So her men were telling her the truth about who was killing her men, stealing her product, and destroying her empire. Her _Empire_! The last vestige of her parents' legacy, passed down into her hands for safekeeping, and this Owl-Man was destroying it.

A heavy sigh left her, and she checked her calendar. "Oh," She said in surprise. Thomas Wayne Junior's annual ball was the following night. At least that would be interesting.

Little does she know how much.


	3. Chapter 3: A ball to remember

Wayne Manor sits at the outskirts to Gotham City, a large monument to the greed that infects her like a virulent plague. The mansion is big and it is opulent, its outer façade of red brick and polished wood doors giving way to elegant marble floors and expensive paintings placed carefully on the walls. Guests are filed through the massive double doors to the ballroom, handed champagne flutes, and mingle among the crowd, some dancing to the live band. As with all things Thomas Wayne Junior, this party is lavish; no expense has been spared.

The man of the hour stands atop the stairs to the upper level, flute in hand. He is pensive, lost in thought, when a hand claps him on the shoulder, a loud boisterous voice filling his ears. "Thomas Wayne, Junior! Man, I was just talking about you." Thomas immediately slips into his public persona; a braggart little rich boy who does well enough at business to throw his money around. "Mayor Falcone! Good to see you. Your golfing game improve any?"

Carmine Falcone has been the mayor of Gotham City for a number of years, a hardliner with an incorruptible stance on crime. Thomas has been investigating him for a solid year, probing for weaknesses or blackmail material. Alfred suggests just killing him and be done with it, but Thomas has dismissed the idea for the moment. Mayor Falcone has been too much of a public figure, too well liked to be killed without a thorough investigation. Without allies within the GCPD, Thomas can't afford to make a move, yet.

It is a bit of a source of frustration for Thomas, which is why he has shifted priorities to the police. Searching for corruption in a city built on it is not hard. "Oh, you know me, Tom." Mayor Falcone replies. "I just can't get that swing on hole 15 under par. "

Thomas' grin is forced, his teeth grind under the tension of his jaw. Were it under different circumstances, he would have killed this man here and now. No one called him "Tom." _Bruce_ called him Tom, or perhaps Tommy. But Mayor Falcone did not know this. Mayor Falcone was trying to be a sociable man at a party, and so Thomas faked his way through it.

"I'm sure you'll get there, Mr Mayor. Say, while I have you on hand, did you get a chance to look over my proposal for the Municipal Building? WayneTech has the best toys, and I can assure you if we don't, I'll buy out whoever does." The two laugh, and the Mayor makes very noncommittal platitudes about his office getting back to him on that.

"Prick." Thomas mutters under his breath. Then he turns around and bumps into Helena Bertinelli, the business owner by day, mob queen by night. She is smiling and her champagne flute is empty, setting it on a passing waiter's tray. "Mr. Wayne. Or is that Mr. Wayne, Junior? I never can tell with appropriate manners." He smiles and also disposes of his flute, turning and placing his hand on the small of her back. "Call me Thomas, please. Mr Wayne is for business associates."

Their shoes click against the marble floor as they begin dancing in tune to the band. "Alright, Thomas. Tell me, what's it like to be the richest man in Gotham?" He laughs, a deep rumble in his chest. "Well, there's a lot of people whose ears prick up every time I mention I'm going somewhere. I imagine you can relate." She nods, smiling wider, like a cat that ate the canary. Thomas has long suspected that she held feelings for him, as have the tabloids, and the look on her face confirmed it. Well, well, even the tabloids can be right once a year.

"What about you? Do you like living in Gotham? I hear we have a giant owl problem." Helena's smile falters at that. His eyes narrow, and he knows that she will die when all of this is over. There is no mistaking that. In his line of work, theirs, really, there are no friends; relationships never work and love doesn't conquer for people like them.

"I know that either way, he's going down."

 _We'll see about that, Helena,_ Thomas thought. _We'll see._ However,just as he was about to reply, Alfred walks over and whispers into his ear. He throws Alfred a nod, and extricates himself from Helena's embrace. Her expression crumbles and he finds himself throwing platitudes to her, telling her he'll be sure to call her later.

In truth, he is relieved to be rid of her, and rid of the party as a whole. Thomas follows Alfred out of the ballroom and into the library, where he picks up a phone from its cradle, taking it off of hold.

"Mister Fox, I assume you have some word for me?" He makes it sound like he is irritated to leave the party, as if speaking to those whom work for him is a Herculean effort. "I would say I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Wayne, but that would imply I care. You wanted word on if any of our WayneTech trucks' alarm systems went off. I'm giving that word now." The phone hangs up abruptly, and Thomas turns to Alfred. He nods and Alfred sets about quietly informing the security staff hired for the event to begin quietly escorting the most inebriated from the event.

Thomas walks back into the ballroom composing himself. He takes a champagne flute from a nearby waiter, and ascends the stairs to the railing overlooking the ballroom. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I want to thank you all for coming out tonight. Unfortunately, I have a business meeting to get to in the morning, so if you'll excuse me, I'm going to rest up. Goodnight, and enjoy your evening elsewhere; security will escort you out."

As the collective groans and hushed whispers of gossipers takes over the silence left by his words, Thomas turns and exits the ballroom through another set of doors into a hallway, heading for his master bedroom. Normally, protocol would dictate he personally oversee the party's end, but Lucius' call meant something had happened and Thomas had to find out what.

Reaching the room, he closed the door behind him, divesting himself of his tie and walking over to the far wall, where a bookshelf rested. His hands ran over the tomes, most of which were first editions, before coming to rest on a book on a shelf at eye level. Tugging on it, the book moved slightly, then slid back into place. The spine slid up to reveal a retinal scanner, which he used and then disappeared as the entire bookshelf slid aside to reveal an elevator.

When the elevator comes to a stop below, Thomas steps out as lights come on to a bunker built out of a cave, the mouth of which felt like a gaping maw with stone fangs where teeth would be. Along one wall is a series of computers, flanked by a state of the art forensics lab. In another corner is the chamber holding a mannequin bearing his suit, and opposite this is the Car. In addition to that, there is gym equipment and training dummies along with a range designed for testing out new projectiles. And of course, there was an armory nearby as well. This is his home, as warlike and bare bones as it is, far more than the mansion above.

Thomas sits down at the computer, hands poised against his chin as his jaw clenches in anger. Another WayneTech truck had been hit carrying raw parts for some proprietary weapon that hadn't yet hit the testing stage. That made four this month alone, 15 in total. The mob was specifically targeting his company, his trucks, on Huntress' orders. The puzzling question was what she planned to do with what she had.

He slid the keyboard closer to himself, and began to type, fingers sliding over the keys like a master pianist playing Bach. The truck had been hit around four hours ago, and the system report stated the cargo door to the truck hadn't just been forced open, but ripped off at the hinges. The security attached to the truck had been ripped from their seats and their heads smashed in on the pavement.

It was quick and dirty, and in all honesty, rather sloppy, but the assailants, the police report states, were all wearing masks and all wielding weaponry built by his company. But, as Thomas looks to previous reports, and their increasing security measures, a pattern begins to emerge.

At first it's small trucks, nothing major. Small, handheld devices already released to military contractors. Then, they began to hit the long haulers, the ones meant to leave their depots for spots across the country with parts meant to mass produce military grade technology. For a while, the pattern held, he noted, as it was only trucks hit. Then it seemed Helena got impatient or someone under her as the warehouse from the other night was the first stationary target hit. Either way, more and more supplies were being taken, and it only meant something big.

"Damn it." He swore. "She's gearing up for a siege."


End file.
